Stockholm
by Steampunkish
Summary: Quirinus Quirrel had always been a cowardly man, never able to say no. And then he became dearly attached to Voldemort... Pun intended. A Very Potter Musical-Book-hybrid, will eventually contain Voldemort/Quirrell, because it's totally awesome.
1. Symbiosis

A/N: Recent research has shown that there is not NEARLY enough Voldemort/Quirrell fanfiction on the interwebs, so this is my contribution. Note that this is a hybrid of the A Very Potter Musical and the books canon. Most of the character interpretations come from AVPM, but I stray occasionally. If you haven't seen AVPM, I demand that you Google it immediately because it is _totally awesome_ and you won't regret it. Take that two hours you were going to use to watch Transformers 2 and watch AVPM instead.

Also: I'm totally sorry that the rest of the stuff on this account sucks. Most of it was written when I was in middle school (Which would explain so much). Hopefully I'll be posting some more, newer, stories on here.

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"You know… You could have everything you ever wanted."

Quirinus Quirrell had never been very good at standing up to people. Of course he was insanely bright, but he had hardly ever said 'no' to anyone. When the person talking was the strongest wizard in existence it was just that much harder.

"E-everything?" Quirrell's lips were dry. He was visibly trembling. He had heard of picking up strange diseases from strange places, but he'd never heard of catching strange people. Well. Strange wasn't the word. He had picked up He Who Shall Not Be Named as if he were a bad STD.

"Yes Quirrell. I know that you are… Talented. It is time you use your talents for something useful." The voice speaking to him was quiet, raspy. Weak almost, but Quirrell had no doubts that even at his weakest the Dark Lord would be able to kill him.

"I suppose I don't have a choice." Quirrell gulped, lightly crossing his arms over his chest. He was frozen in fear. As a Ravenclaw, bravery was never his strong suit; he still remembered when Voldemort was strong. As a muggle-born, You-Know-Who was one of the boogey men of his school days. The type of person that could only be described as Hitler like.

"Oh, don't say that. You always have a choice. Like now. Do you choose to serve me and be rewarded lavishly… Or to be disposed of like the rest of the mud-blood scum? The offer I'm giving you is far superior to anything you have ever been offered you know… You should feel honored."

A sob nearly escaped Quirrell's lips. God. Why was this happening to him? Why did he have to go to Albania during his one year sabbatical from Hogwarts? Zimbabwe or Romania or anywhere else would have been just as acceptable surely.

"I c-choose the obvious option. To s-serve you… My dark lord." The last part tasted like poison on his lips. Was he really going to give in this easily? He was talking to a terrorist for Wizard God's sake! He should be a martyr! He should fight!

Except no. That was stupid.

"Very good. I was beginning to tire of trying to convince you… Remember, Quirrell. No matter how useful you are… There's always someone more useful. You are replaceable."

"I… Will." Now he was beginning to shift his weight from foot to foot, one of his nervous habits. He wondered if this would be his life from now on. Perpetually living in a state of fear… Never knowing what it was to enjoy a book or watch a movie again. He regretted not watching 'She's All That'. Now he'd never get the chance.

The voice, 'V-V-Voldemort' seemed to be quiet for now. But Quirrell could still sense him. Watching him, in the same way he _would _be watching 'She's All That' if this all hadn't happened. No. Wait. He was too afraid to think of something as trivial as movies.

In a flustered flurry, Quirrell finally spoke out loud.

"W-what do you want me to do now?" He asked blindly, fearing what would happen if he did anything to displease the wizard now residing in his body. It was like having an evil Jiminy Cricket on your shoulder, except instead of being a cricket he was just a disembodied soul sucking the life out of him. Funny how things worked out like that.

"Oh. Well." For once, it seemed like… The voice… Had nothing else to say "Go on as you were. Don't do anything to kill yourself though. I'd have to kill you if you did." What a twisted sense of humor.

Quirrell thought it was odd how Voldem-… He Who Must Not Be-… His liege's tone changed constantly. One second it was like he was acting sugary sweet to get him to go along with the plan, the next he was using scare tactics.

…

He would get tired of this SO quickly.

Slowly, Quirrell made his way to a chair. He could just… Sit there. Yes. And he wouldn't break down, he couldn't let the Dark Lord see him cry. He may decide that Quirrell was too weak to be his vessel and kill him on the spot, and if that happened he'd be kind of dead. Which he decided would suck more then being the host to You-Know-Who.

"You know Quirrell…" The voice in his head rang again "You are very boring."

"I'm aware, my lord. Exciting people die young." Quirrell instinctively looked around over his shoulder to find the source of the voice even though he knew that he wouldn't see anything. Habits, he supposed.

"Why don't you… I don't know. Get out or something? Surely you have somewhere else you could be besides this God awful apartment…"

"…" Quirrell paused, not sure if he really wanted to ask "How is my ap-partment God awful? I think it's rather nice."

"Are you kidding? PUH-LEEZE. You have got to have the most boring apartment I have ever seen. And don't even get me _started _on the mess… For a prissy professor, you are not as neat as expected."

Quirrell decided to leave it there, not wanting to press his luck. But the nerve-! It wasn't his fault he never had any company, and hence no reason to clean. It wasn't like he was bringing girls (Or even boys) back to his apartment each night. This mess was HIS to command, not some strange dictator's.

"Get out, you say?" Quirrell sighed, "F-fine. Get out I will." He grabbed his robes, walking out the door. He didn't know many people, and even if he had he didn't feel like going over to talk with his best friend was the best idea at the moment. He didn't want to spread the Dark Lord virus.

What to do next was obvious. Get drunk.

"I hope you find the interior decorating of the Leaky Cauldron pleasing. Heaven forbid it not appeal to you."

"Hrm…" Voldemort seemed like he wanted to say something but didn't. Evidently, it wasn't worth it to dignify that with a response. "Watch your tongue before your Lord."

"Right…" Wait. Was he saying all this out loud? Curses. Now people probably thought he was insane. Talking to himself. Not that talking to He Who Must Not Be Named was any better, but still…

It seemed hardly a minute had gone by before Quirrell found himself in the wizardly (Wizarding? Wizardish?) pub. Thankfully they had beer, and stout, and basically anything that could get him very, very drunk. He'd need it. And maybe the headache would finish Voldemort off or something, who knew?

Wouldn't that be amazing. Dark Lord, feared by millions, wounded by a two year old, killed by a hangover.

"Give me t-the strongest stout you have." The innkeeper looked over to Quirrell, who had ordered before he even sat down.

"Of course. It's been a while, professor." Tom, the innkeeper, grinned his toothless grin at him. "'S good to see you're still around." He talked as he went over to the tap, some dark brown liquid falling out into a glass. No hands needed. Ah, magic…

"T-thanks" Quirrell muttered, not feeling very talkative today. Surprise, surprise.

For a little over half an hour Quirrell sat there quietly, drinking. It seemed that You-Know-Who was quiet. For now. Then he heard something.

"…Harry Potter!" He hadn't heard any of the preceding conversation, but he defiantly heard that part. Tom seemed to be talking to someone.

"It's him…" He heard a voice in his head hiss. Yes indeed. It was the boy who lived. Quirrell hadn't had a problem with him previously… But he got the feeling that now he'd have to feel some sort of resentment towards him. It was in the job description.

Without hearing anything, Quirrell felt willed to stand up and walk over to the small boy (Who, oddly, looked rather old. Almost college age even.) and the large man. Hagrid. A decent man, though sometimes a bit… Well, he respected Hagrid but he could hardly see him having him over for tea and crumpets every week.

"Ah. Professor Quirrell!" The giant greeted jovially, going on to tell Harry who he was.

"H-Harry Potter" Quirrell put on a grin, "It's a p-pleasure to meet you, of course" He paused a second, something telling him that he should avoid touching him. He figured it was his Dark Lord sense tingling, so he'd listen to it. "I w-would shake your hand, but I. Uh. Caught… The very contagious… Uh… Talking Lion Fever. Yes. V-very rare. I should recover, b-but I don't want to pass it along."

Harry seemed to stop paying attention after a second or so, deciding instead to look around.

"Yeah. Right. Anyways." He went off with Hagrid. "Do you wizards have any Advil or something? I've got this _killer_ headache…"

And, for some reason, Quirrell felt like laughing. Evilly. Maybe he should start to practice his evil laugh. People always overlooked the laugh… But he wouldn't.

…

_Hahahahaha._

_

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A/N: Aaand that was the first chapter. Yay. Now you (Yes you, reading this) go write a Quirrelmort fanfic right now, _you swine_.


	2. Parasite

_Woo. People have reviewed. This makes me happy, so I shall continue to write at a greater speed (Until I run out of steam that is). Anyways, next chapter is the first chapter where they're at Hogwarts, which should be fun. Cheers~! And thanks for reading (And reviewing. That too.)  
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Right. Well, let the records show that getting drunk does NOT properly dispose of Dark Lords. However it does get THEM drunk, which is an equally amusing sight.

"Q-Quirrell… Check this out, it'll be great… IMPERIO!"

It would seem that a drunken Dark Master was exponentially worse then a Drunken Master. Drunken Masters weren't excellent at nonverbally using Unforgivable Curses. As Quirrell looked over through the haze of beer goggles, it seemed that a very attractive woman was dancing naked on a table. If he had been sober he would have seen in place of the very attractive woman a cursed Sybill Trelawney.

No one thought it was too strange for her.

Quirrell still let out a roaring laugh none the less, he wasn't sure if he felt compelled to laugh because of Voldemort or the beer. He suspected both.

"Ah… M-my liege…" Quirrell bumbled out loud. He was drunk enough that no one seemed to notice. "I… I think I should g-get back to my apartment soon… Because I'm… I'm…"

"Soooo drunk?" Voldemort filled in the gaps

"Yeah, yeah…" Quirrell tried standing with a loud laugh, but only succeeded in falling back into his seat. He concentrated a second, standing up. "No floo powder… S-so I guess I'm apparating…" His eyes closed and he concentrated the best he could.

This was the equivalent of driving home drunk, except with more missing organs and less endangering others.

Thankfully, the worst Quirrell did was lose a part of one of his shoes. Though… It was a _nice _pair of shoes. He'd regret it in the morning. Hardly half a second passed after he got into his apartment before he passed out on the floor.

The next morning he woke up horrified.

"What did I do last night?" He grumbled to himself, looking down to his feet. Hrmph. He had liked those shoes. Why in the name of God did he go out and-

"_YOU_"

Oh. Um. That's right.

"Last night… It was all part of a plan, wasn't it? Trying to get rid of me? Dispose of me?" Quirrell heard the voice hissing in his head, oh god. The wrath of an angry, paranoid, Dark Lord… Not good. Not good.

"I could have-" Voldemort paused, amending his statement "WE could have been caught because of you. Because of YOUR incompetence! Getting drunk is a RISK, you _filthy_, _idiotic_, Mud-Blood! CRUCIO!"

Oh- Oh jeeze. It took Quirrell a second to comprehend the complete mind numbing _pain_ he was in. This was not good. No. Ouch. Ouch. Ow. Not good at all. He wasn't completely aware of it, but by this point he was screaming in agony.

"I should kill you RIGHT. NOW."

"NO!" Quirrell shouted through his cries of pain "IT'LL NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN! I'LL NEVER TOUCH ANOTHER BEER IN MY LIFE!" He added, after a second the pain stopped, and Voldemort fell silent. It seemed that for now he was returning to the 'silent but deadly' mode. Ugh. Crucio'd hangovers were the worst ones in the world.

After a few minutes to recuperate from what had just happened, Quirrell rose. He'd get over the pain soon, but he had other things he should be doing. Lesson plans, he was teaching a brand new subject after all. He could no longer use the same homework assignments he'd used for the past few years. Unless he wanted to teach DADA students what a 'television' was; but even though they were evil Quirrell sincerely doubted it was the variety of dark art that they needed… Defending… From…

…He just realized the irony that he was going to be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts as a pawn of Voldemort. Wonderful. Tactically he supposed it was good, but his student's education… It would suffer more then a muggle at a Death Eater meeting.

Quirrell spent the following hours working. It was almost like he was normal, a normal wizard performing (Relatively) normal tasks. It was the calmest he'd felt since You-Know-Who inhabited him.

In no time at all it seemed days had turned into weeks. As fast as you could say 'ZEfron is totally awesome' (Which Voldemort seemed to be able to say with an ungodly fast speed) it was time to get back to Hogwarts. This year was going to be wildly different from the past few… For one, he was teaching DADA instead of Muggle Studies; which meant of course that Snape would have yet another reason to hate him. If Snape didn't hate everyone anyway he'd almost feel bad.

The main difference though was that this year he'd be a Deatheater. Er. Would he be? He worked for Voldemort, but he didn't have that awful gaudy skull tattoo. Maybe he was just a Death-Taster? Or maybe he was just an incredibly lucky Mud-Blood. Either way you looked at it he still had the evilest leach in the world attached to his soul.

"I think I've… Got everything" Quirrell muttered to himself mainly, not thinking Voldemort was listening.

"What about your… Turban?" The voice was less faint then it had been a month ago. He was gaining strength.

"Oh right! How could I forget my turban!" Quirrell looked around his apartment. "Oh! That's right! _I don't have one!_ Well, I guess I've got everything then…" Sarcasm: A (Totally awesome) coping mechanism.

"Are you sure, Quirrell? Perhaps you should check again. Under your cot." It was very off putting, for some reason Voldemort wanted Quirrell to have a turban. He had no idea why, but he was sure it couldn't be for anything good. Unless this was the _wacky _side to the dark lord, in all the books he'd read the main bad guy always had a _zany_ side. That nutty Voldemort…

"…Under here?" Quirrell ducked over to the edge of his apartment, checking under the edge of the bed with his fingers. He quickly detected a bit of cloth which he pulled out.

"Ah yes. You've found it." Just judging by his voice he could tell he was smirking. Er. If he had a mouth.

"Now, dare I ask, why did a turban end up in my apartment without my knowledge?" Quirrell was puzzled. Even for _wacky, zany _this was weird. He didn't get drunk and bring home some strange African prince or something did he? Because that'd be even _weirder_ for him.

"You'll be needing it of course. We wouldn't want people to ask any questions." A low chuckle rang through Quirrell's mind. Uh-oh.

"Any q-questions? Any questions about what?" Inadvertently Quirrell had backed himself against a wall.

"Gimme a second." No. You know what, Voldemort didn't get a second.

"I _demand _you tell me right this instant! Why am I holding a turban?!" Hardly a second had passed, but he felt something push his head from the wall. Curious. A hand was lifted slowly to feel the back of his head. Nothing. Well, hair, but that was normal.

Then the back of his hand brushed against something.

"…You're kidding me…" Quirrell muttered, craning his neck sideways to see. His suspicions were confirmed. Out of the corner of his vision he could fleetingly see the edge of a head that was not his own.

"I figured you wouldn't mind me crashing on your neck for a while. That whole 'no body' thing was starting to get me down. It's no biggy, right?" Voldemort's words went mostly unheard by Quirrell.

"Y-you're… On the… I'VE GOT TWO HEADS!" He leaned his head back to groan but only ended up butting heads with the Dark Lord.

"Hey, watch it." Voldemort demanded, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

"And… Turban… And…" He lifted a hand up to rub his forehead. Oh god. This year wouldn't be fun. Not at all. He didn't want to begin to consider how many problems having a second head would cause him, not to mention the privacy issues. At least when Voldemort was a disembodied head he could pretend he wasn't there…

"Now Quirrell, come! We've got to… Get back to Hogwarts!"


End file.
